The Last Conté
by Rockstar with a Vendetta
Summary: Over a decade has passed since Tusaine conquered Tortall and executed the beloved royal family, but the people still haven't given up hope - because somewhere out there, Lianokami has survived. Amid betrayal, plots, and schemes, they await her return.
1. The Last Conté

**I decided to take Kari of Mindelan's advice and actually turn this into a multi-chaptered fic; I'm much too fascinated by this universe, and I'll end up with too many one-shots that will make my profile unwieldy. Most chapters will be told from the POV of minor or "sideline" characters, to offer a different perspective of events.**

_**- A mother tells her daughter the tale of Tortall's downfall, almost a decade past. But it is more than a mere bedtime story: it is a prophecy, a memory, and a promise.**_

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"...but the combined might of Tusaine and Scanra proved to be too much, even for Tortall's great army, and in the end, they lost. Little heart, are you sure you want to hear this one again? You're too young for such dark stories."

The young girl nodded her head vigorously, eyes big and enthralled. She absentmindedly stroked one of her long, black sleeping-braids. She was only nine, but her face already possessed the promise of sharp-honed beauty.

"Please, Mama," she begged. "This one's my favorite."

"But it's so sad. Wouldn't you rather hear about the Giantkiller or the Copper Isles Rebellion?"

"You tell those all the time. I know 'em all by now. I want to hear more about Tortall."

The woman picked at a thread in her tattered, patched dress. She was only nearing thirty, but there was already a shot of gray in her hair. Crow's feet stretched out from the corners of her eyes, and a puckered, jagged scar split through an eyebrow and across her cheek to her jawline, marring whatever good looks she might have had.

"Are you sure? I can tell another one..."

"Yes, Mama," the girl said patiently.

The woman sighed. "Warriors fell one by one—soldiers, knights, and all the loyal citizens who took a stand. Eventually, it fell to only the select few who still lived to protect Corus, the capital, and the ruling family of Conté."

"And they were the most beautiful people in the world."

"Oh, yes. The queen was called 'the Peerless' because her beauty was unmatched throughout the lands, and the king was a man every woman would be proud to call her own. All their children were beautiful and black-haired, but the handsomest of all was the oldest prince and heir. He married a Yamani princess who was certainly a beautiful lady in her own right."

"And they had a baby."

"A pretty infant girl. No one doubted she would be as beautiful as her foremothers."

"But she disappeared."

"Don't jump ahead, dear. The men of Tusaine and Scanra had marched on Corus, and their battering rams and catapults were making quick work of its strong walls. The remaining knights and guards prepared to take one last stand. But first, the prince and heir had a favor to beg of his trusted knights."

"Because he loved his daughter."

"He loved his daughter more than anything, perhaps even his country. He could not bear to think what would happen to his infant princess should he be unable to protect her. So he picked two knights, out of the mere hundred or so that were left, and said to them, 'As long as there is a Conté left to rule, Tortall will never be subjugated. I won't abandon my people, but you have to save my daughter—I know you don't want to leave, but I won't risk her life, and I know I can entrust you with her safety.'"

"He must have really trusted them, if he'd give his baby to them."

"One would like to think so. The two knights certainly trusted him and would obey whatever he wished. So while the invading army slept that night, the two knights said goodbye to their prince and loved ones and escaped through a secret passageway."

The girl sat up straighter as the woman paused to take a drink of water. The rain outside was a steady, unnoticeable drone, but water leaked through the cracks in the ceiling to drip in a ting-ting-ting pattern in the tin pans placed throughout the room. In the next room, a mother was shouting at her bawling children. The lower city of Tyra's capital was a harsh and ugly place, but both of them considered it a step up from their previous brief residence in one of Galla's coastal towns.

"What happened to everyone in Corus?"

"They didn't all die. The royal family was, sadly, executed. Their deaths wasn't just a brutal blow to Tortall, it turned others against Scanra and Tusaine. The Yamani Isles have not forgotten that one of their own was killed. Carthak's empress is a daughter of Conté; it was said her grief brought her country to its knees. Assassins from the Copper Isles have struck down several of the enemy's leaders. Whatever they gained, I think they lost more."

"Did all the knights die?"

"No. Once the royal family was executed, they lost much of their will. Tusaine is craftier than Scanra, and they were able to maneuver so that they hold much of Tortall's power. It's a Tusaine prince that holds the throne now, and many of his friends have been ennobled with Tortallan fiefs, but there are several houses that still stand. The aging duke of Queenscove is prized for his healing skills, and the same with his son. Naxen, Cavall, Hannalof, and Tasride still stand strong. Fenrigh and Kennan stand only because they swore fealty to Tusaine."

"What about the two knights' houses?"

"Their fiefs were searched and torched until there was nothing left but crumbling stone. Their families were hanged, stoned, or burned. Even the daughters married into other houses were found and murdered."

"Do the people follow Tusaine?"

"As little as they can get away with. Their monarchs were much beloved to them. They await the day their true princess returns to them."

"The prince wanted to give hope to his people," the girl said wisely. "It's why he wanted to save her, isn't it? He wanted his people to know that there is always hope."

The woman touched a long finger to her cheek. "Yes," she said gravely. "The prince knew that as long as his daughter, the last true Conté heir, was alive, his people would never give up."

"Do they still wait?"

"They will always wait."

"Do you think she will return?"

"Yes. One day, she will go back to claim her crown. She will not shame her father."

"Aren't you Tortallan, Mama?"

"Yes."

"Will you follow her?"

"I will follow her to the ends of the earth."

"Would Papa follow her?"

"The gods could not keep him from her side."

"When's Papa coming home?"

"Soon, little heart."

"Does Papa beg?"

The woman said sharply, "Of course not. Don't ever think he doesn't earn an honest living."

"But we're poor."

"Yes."

"Why don't we have a real house?"

"It's getting late. I think it's time for bed."

The girl looked dejected, her mouth drooping sullenly. But she crawled under the thin blankets obediently, her undyed woolen night dress tangled in her skinny legs. "I'm not tired," she protested, smothering a yawn. "Can't you finish the story?"

"I can't finish a story that doesn't have an end. The people wait for the princess, while the knights who have her keep her safe and hidden."

"Every story has an end."

"This one doesn't."

"Maybe I should write it."

"That's a good idea."

After that, the girl went quiet. The woman smoothed the covers over her and got up from her perch on the edge of the bed, drifting toward the window. She hugged herself against the draft. She hoped he would come home soon; Tyran nights were strange and dark and lonely, but they always seemed better when he was by her side.

"Mama?"

"It's time to sleep."

"What was the princess' name?"

The woman glanced at her, vaguely surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"Maybe I can help find her one day."

"She probably has a different name now, to keep her safe and hidden."

"What's her real name?"

"She was called Lianokami."

"That's like my name!"

"I suppose it sounds a bit like Iliano, yes. Now go to sleep."

"Yes, Mama."

It did not take much persuasion this time. The girl accepted her bedtime kiss and rolled over, burrowing deep under her insubstantial covers. One day, the woman vowed, she will have goose-down pillows and silk sheets.

It was late when he finally returned.

She heard his heavy footsteps on the rickety wooden steps as he climbed. The rain had not abetted; he was probably soaked and chilled to the bone. When he opened the creaking door as quietly as he could, she had a towel ready for him. He ignored it and kissed her softly, one hand cupping the scarred half of her face.

_It's ugly_, she had whispered once, when the trials of nomadic poverty seemed crueler than usual. _You don't have to keep up this charade all the time. There are plenty of pretty women out there, so you don't have to stay here out of pity._

_You still think it's a charade?_ he had replied, his hands warm as they brought hers to his mouth. _You think I stay with you out of duty? When every bell I'm away I'm terrified that somehow they've found you? They'd kill you if they did, and they'd take her. And without you—all these years, you're all I've had to remind me of what we lost and what there is to gain. Your scar reminds me. I don't care if you don't love me back. But don't you dare suggest that I stay with you just because of duty._

"Is she asleep?" he whispered.

"Yes."

They both glanced over at the girl. Her chest rose slow and steady and her eyes moved rapidly beneath her closed lids.

"She's beginning to look like her mother."

"I know. She has his chin and mouth, though."

"I've noticed that."

"She's asking questions."

"Good."

He began to strip, peeling off his drenched clothes that were as ragged as the dress she wore. He was just skin and bones and sinew now, when once he had been strong and broad. His face was heavily lined, his body striped with scars, and he walked with a slight limp that pained him when it was cold. But she only saw the dark and handsome youth he had once been. It never occurred to her that he, too, saw only a stoic dreamer.

He did not take the clothes she offered him. Instead, he pulled her close and swiftly unbuttoned her dress. It pooled around her dirty bare feet. Her hands traced the familiar contours of his gaunt body. His lips grazed her cheek. She did not realize she was crying until he brushed her tears away.

"It's been almost ten years," he whispered, "but it hurts like it was yesterday. I know."

"She asked to hear the story of Tortall's defeat. I couldn't refuse her."

"Is she suspicious?"

"Not yet. But she will be soon. And she asked about the families of the knights who spirited away the princess."

His face went taut with a pain that would never fade.

"My sisters," she began, "my—mother—"

He was on top of her, kissing her, stroking her, comforting her in the only way either of them really knew how. "One day," he promised, brushing her lank hair from her face. "One day, the princess will return—and so will we. When that happens, we will bring down Tusaine, we will kill its king and hang its prince and rip apart every soldier who follows them."

_One day, _she thought. _One day, their fathers will burn like ours did, their brothers hanged and their sisters raped. When that happens, we can stop running_.

_And maybe then, King's Reach and Mindelan will finally be avenged._


	2. Servants of Tusaine

**This chapter was previously posted as a separate one-shot, so if you think you recognize it, then you probably do. ;)**

_**- Although they no longer heal great Tortallan kings or fight beside brave Tortallan women, the proud sons of Queenscove will never break beneath the yoke of Tusaine.**_

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It was a clean break, and His Royal Highness Prince Einvers of Keir was assured that he would have full use of his arm in a couple of weeks. It put him in a foul mood nonetheless, and he raged colorfully at his attending healers. One woman was so bold as to dryly point out it was his own fault for riding his hot-blooded, unbroken stallion out on hilly terrain. It was perhaps lucky for her that she was of Tusaine; had she been Tortallan, he would have done more than purpled with apoplectic fury—it would have been her head. Instead, he banished all but one healer from the bedside and was content to complain loudly to one of his sympathetic wives.

The remaining healer was careful to control his blank expression. It would not do for the usurper's son—his prince, he reflected bitterly—to see the hate that burned in his green eyes.

"The splint is set," Duke Baird of Queenscove said smoothly, dipping his hands in clean water. They were not bloody, but he felt tainted with Tusaine's filth. "If I may withdraw to leave you to your rest?"

"So be it," Einvers said indifferently, waving an imperious hand. "But tell the cook to stop burning my toast. It tastes wretched."

"As you wish," he replied impassively, and bowed his way out.

_Healers are not servants._

Baird latched the infirmary door quietly behind him and sagged against it.

It was rarely that a healer was ever entirely helpless. There was always something to be done, something that could be done, to mend a wound or save a life. He was Chief Healer, after all, and powerful enough that even Tusaine had magnanimously allowed him to continue his work. He could save anyone.

But he could not save Jonathan.

Baird passed a hand over his face, a familiar ache constricting his throat. It had been ten long, agonizing years ago that his king had been publicly executed—old King Ain's grudge had not allowed his rival's son even the dignity of a private death. All the fool he, for the people had howled in rage as their monarch met his fate. And Jonathan had met the axe with a calm face and open blue eyes. It was the face of a man, and not so different from the face of the boy that, long ago, Baird had been unable to save from the Sweating Sickness that took from Tortall nearly as much as Tusaine did.

It seemed Jonathan had always been doomed at Baird's helpless hands.

He opened a nearby door that led into an empty infirmary room and slipped inside. He sat limply on a cot, staring out the window. There were other patients to which he should attend, like the burn victim and the one mauled by an unusually vicious copper-eyed griffin, but he needed a moment to himself. He ignored the small, nasty part of him that whispered he just wanted them to die. He was a healer. He did not allow men in his care to die.

_Unless they were Tusaine._

Baird bowed his head into his hands, hating himself for what he was becoming and hating Tusaine for making him this way. He had never purposely neglected a patient for death—but he considered it more and more often now, when a Tusaine soldier came to him with riot wounds or when a Tortallan rape victim sobbed in the next room while he tended to her rapist's scratches because _she could wait_.

If they had known King Ain had harbored such an ugly, hateful, ancient loathing for Tortall, would things have turned out different? If the Whisper Man's spy had not been compromised, would they have discovered Tusaine's secret correspondence with Scanra? If Tortall had not been so cleverly surprised, would their knights and soldiers and everyday citizens have been able to stand stronger than they did?

Would Tortall still be standing free and uncorrupted?

"I thought I'd find you here."

Baird glanced up at his son posed in the doorway, watching him with familiar emerald eyes. To think that this was all that was left of the great and mighty house of Queenscove: an old man gone completely gray but for a streak of red-brown, with lines in his sad face and a chest cough that would not go away, and a gaunt, haunted man who had lost his scholar's humor and will to live.

Nealan gently pushed a mug of steaming tea into his hands, peering into his face. He asked, "How's your cough?"

Baird took a cautious sip and winced as it scalded his tongue, and replied, "No different than it was three hours ago, but thank you."

He mentally kicked himself as his son turned away and busied himself with readying poultices. It had not been easy for either of them, but Neal had never been the same after he sent Yukimi back to the Yamani Islands. It had been for her own good and the most selfless thing his son had ever done, but it didn't make it any easier.

Three years ago, a major revolt had broken out, led by Balduin of Disart. He had accomplished his goal—killing two generals, an impressive many of the guard, and several high-ranking Tusaine nobles—but at the cost of his life. His execution had been ugly and occurred only after three weeks of torture. Then Tusaine had marched to Disart, razed it to the ground, and taken Balduin's pregnant wife, Jessamine.

Baird never saw his daughter again.

And that was when Neal sent Yukimi away. She had pleaded and argued, cajoled and refused, but Neal had been surprisingly stubborn about it. He said that, should anything happen to him or should he be at all implemented in a crime against Tusaine, her life as well would be forfeit. He would not take that risk.

Yukimi—and the rest of Shinkokami's Yamani retinue, for that matter—secured passage on a merchant boat sailing back to the Islands.

There had been no word from her since. Tusaine intercepted all foreign letters—George Cooper figured that one out early. For all they knew, her boat had capsized...or had been seized.

"The herbs you ordered arrived," Baird said. "They're in that chest right there. Since when did you use Yamani herbs?"

Startled, Neal turned and said, "I don't. I never ordered any herbs."

Baird frowned. "The import form has your name on it. You ordered it from Cricket Minreach?"

"I don't know anyone by that—" His mouth fell open. "Cricket—that was Princess Shinkokami's nickname as a child. And Minreach—Father—it's Mindelan and King's Reach."

Baird's heart started pounding. In a quiet, tense whisper, he said, "You don't think it's—Keladry? And Faleron?"

"I don't know—I don't think so. It's too risky. They wouldn't use something so obvious, not with the—their precious cargo. But someone wanted our attention. Hold on—"

Neal locked the door, then dragged the chest over and sat on the bed opposite Baird. He opened it, and they both peered excitedly inside. At first glance, it was indeed filled with packets of herbs, and vials and pouches and small sacks, but tucked out of the way in between two packets, nearly invisible, was a neatly folded parchment. Neal withdrew it with shaking fingers. He slowly unrolled it, read the first couple words, and gasped.

"Yuki," he whispered.

For the first time, a small spark stirred behind Neal's eyes, and Baird felt his own spirits rekindle, if only a small bit. It was not news of Lianokami—their only hope, their only princess—but it was a tentative hold to which to cling.

Neal consumed the letter in mere seconds, his eyes darting across every line as though the words would feed his endless hunger. He snapped his gaze up to meet Baird's anxious face, and smiled. It was small, and barely there, but it was the brightest thing he had seen since Jonathan's sapphire eyes.

"I have a son," Neal said hoarsely. "I have a son."

Baird snatched the letter from his loose fingers and read it himself.

_The Islands are quiet and hear no word of their scion, but we listen for her. I have another man in my life now; we have been together for almost four years. He is called Baird for his grandfather. I wear his father's signet ring close to my heart. Please do not respond._

Baird did not realize he was weeping until a tear splattered on the parchment. He hastily wiped it away. _Yuki, my dear_, he thought, _how brave you are_.

"Father," Neal said, gaping at him, "I have a son."

"You have a son," Baird said, feeling the corners of his mouth begin to uncertainly draw upwards.

"A son," Neal said, and then laughed.

It was a beautiful sound, and until he heard it Baird did not know how desperately he had missed his drawling, sarcastic boy. Something eased in his heart, a gentle undoing and a strange warm feeling that he did not recognize.

"You know what this means?" Neal whooped. "You have a grandson!"

"A grandson," Baird howled, and slapped his knee. "I have a _grandson_!"

And then they were both laughing, barely able to contain themselves as they held on to each other. They were not concerned about being overheard; this was cause for celebration. If the tears that rolled down their face were not entirely of mirth, well—they could be forgiven. After all, a son had been born to Queenscove, and somewhere out there, a daughter still belonged to Conté.

That was when Baird recognized the feeling of uplifting joy, the tentative promise that perhaps the future wasn't so bleak after all: it was hope.


	3. Silent Sakuyo

_**- The day Tortall lost their future queen, Haname lost a friend. Now, she will be the steel beneath the silk: beautiful, deceptive, and when the time comes, one of Lianokami's greatest weapons.**_

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"Would you like more tea, Lady Haname?"

"No, thank you, Your Highness."

It was one of Prince Einvers' subordinate wives who offered the teapot; the superior queens did not deem it necessary to be polite to a savage. Not for the first time, Haname noh Ajikuro wished she had returned to the Yamani Islands with the rest of Princess Shinkokami's retinue. Tortall had become an inhospitable land for those who had known it well in its shining glory. Its exotic crudeness no longer fascinated her, its rulers no longer instilled a sense of awe.

But she was needed here.

All around her, women chattered and giggled and subtly insulted each other. Such disharmony, such crass—there were simply too many wives and mistresses and the pursuit of ultimate power meant constantly shifting alliances and dangerous games. Einvers had little regard for his women, even those he married, as was proven when he constantly grouped his wives with the ladies in his harem. Now king, after Ain's timely death, he spared no thought to his queens and whores, and only continued to add to his collection of trophies.

The result was a disarray of restless women with nothing with which to occupy themselves except to vie for the scant attention Einvers so kindly offered. Secluded in one wing of the palace, only the queens were allowed limited and guarded freedom. Still, he was a crafty man, in his own way. By leaving the women alone and desperate, he ensured that they would do anything for his favor.

And that was how Haname ended up as a frequent guest in the cramped, loud quarters of Einvers' harem. Growing up in the Imperial court as a member of a most ancient family, she was not innocent to politics, and she knew quite well why they requested her presence so often. They did not like her—foreign, beautiful, silent, unreadable.

Valuable. A link to the missing princess, to potential alliances with her homeland.

_Ah, Shinko_, she thought. _You would laugh at their pathetic substance_.

"At least have a little cake," an unexpected voice said lazily over the drone of shrill voices. "Your figure certainly won't suffer from it."

Haname met the cool gaze of Philippa, the wily high queen. She had reigned unchallenged for seven years after the last high queen had mysteriously died. She was untouchable now, as firmly insinuated in Einver's life as any woman could be, but it was only a matter of time. It was she who had screamed her rage when Princess Lianokami's nursery was found empty, and she who danced around in Shinko's crown.

It would be Haname who brought her down. The Tusaine guards thought little of the _shukusen_ she bore; it was a petty weapon, they thought. The cold steel was soothing to her fingers, and she touched it for reassurance. This was the one that will cut through Philippa's black heart.

It was only fitting. This _shukusen_ belonged to Shinko.

"I am not hungry, Your Lady Majesty," she demurred. "Thank you."

"Nonsense," Philippa said, waving dismissively. "You barely touched your lunch. Please, have a cake."

If the other ladies had not been nibbling on the food, Haname would suspect foul play. With no other protests, she selected a little honeycake at random and politely bit into a corner. It was sickeningly sweet, but she swallowed it nonetheless.

"Good, aren't they? It's an old family recipe."

"It is very sweet."

"They _are_ called honeycakes."

A snide jab like that would not upset a woman of Yamani upbringing.

"How are the negotiations coming along?"

Philippa's chin lifted a little, but Haname simply gazed serenely at her from her place at the other end of the table.

"Your emperor killed our messenger," she said. "But I'm sure you knew that."

"I had heard such a thing," Haname said evenly. "I thought surely it was a rumor."

"As I recall, it was you who said the emperor would treat him respectfully—_seeing as how the messenger was my brother_."

The noise quieted a bit as everyone tried to listen without seeming to.

"I had certainly expected this to be true," she replied without missing a beat. "But how could I have known the emperor would act so drastically?"

"How, indeed."

The fury smoldered just beneath the surface, but if Philippa did not have Yamani discipline, she was at least a master of concealing feelings. Her smile was brittle and did not reach her eyes when she continued,

"I wonder at this, Hana." She used the easternized nickname that Haname abhorred. "After all, don't you keep in touch with your family? I believe you're related to the emperor, if I recall."

This was dangerous ground; politics required one to bend the truth without lying, but Haname had perfected this art. She knew quite well they intercepted her incoming and outgoing letters—or those she let them find. She could only reveal what they already knew she knew, and dance around what they suspected but couldn't prove.

"We are related, yes," Haname said, "but I only write letters to my mother and Prince Eitaro, who does not discuss politics with me."

"I see."

Haname did not mention those letters she exchanged with Yukimi, by way of an intricate underground network that George Cooper successfully constructed after several years of frequent imprisonments for smuggling. Tusaine was proud of their shrewdness, but they had underestimated his own. Their mistake was in keeping him alive—they thought they had gained his cooperation. All the more fools, they, for George Cooper of Pirate's Swoop would never forgive them their murder of his son in the Corus Seige.

And while Yuki sent news—the birth of her son, and a letter to Nealan that she dare not send directly to him for fear of attention turning to him; and valuable information—like how the emperor seethed with unforgiving rage for Shinkokami and would never ally with Tusaine, and how Prince Eitaro very quietly negotiated with Maren and Tyra, and also how there were _very_ tentative correspondences with that midden called Jindazhen; she still sent no word of that which Haname so desperately wanted to know.

Where was Lianokami?

_My princess, my little Yamani_, Haname thought, her heart constricting. _Where are you? Where has Keladry taken you, and are you safe there? Do you even live, or has Tusaine found you? We look for you, we wait for you, but we cannot see you._

"I find that hard to believe," Philippa smirked. "You correspond with a prominent prince of the Yamani Islands, one close to the emperor himself, and yet he did not reveal to you that his uncle planned on beheading my brother?"

"That is correct."

Her lips tightened, but Philippa's sharp face revealed nothing more. When she got the chance, Haname would have to caution George; after this, no doubt Tusaine would scrutinize letters even more carefully, so those that were openly sent and concealed a hidden message, some kind of code, would be even more at risk of discovery.

"We'll find her, you know."

At this, the room went silent. Women looked at their queen, and at the barbarian. Even Haname was taken aback at the matter-of-fact statement, so violently hissed. Still, her surprise was concealed behind her Yamani Mask.

"Who?" she asked, feigning indifference.

"Your precious _princess_. We'll find her, and we'll take her head, and I'll lay her long black braid on your pillow while you sleep."

Fury bloomed in her breast as the queen laughed cruelly, hot molten anger that roiled in her belly in nauseous waves. Dared she threaten a scion of divinity and emperors? Dared she threaten Lianokami, daughter of Shinkokami, who was beautiful, brave, her soul-sister? Dared she threaten that for which Haname had suffered all these years, for which she had spied, for which she will die?

Philippa danced in Shinko's crown, but Haname would strip her own flesh before she saw that woman dance in Liano's.

"We will see, Your Lady Majesty," she said coldly.

_Oh, yes, we will see_, she thought fiercely. Triumphant, Philippa turned away to converse with Lady Malita, as though she was so easily dismissed. _We will see how hard you laugh when you bow to Queen Lianokami._

Haname touched the steel of Shinko's _shukusen_, and prayed to Sakuyo—if anyone could help her now, it would be that cunning god of tricks.

**Please review!**


	4. These Hallowed Waters

**_- Thom reflects on his brother's death and his own silent rage, and realizes he must be the change he wishes to see._**

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The open air was cool and heavy with sea salt, and Thom of Pirate's Swoop and Olau breathed deeply the scent of the ocean. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously and the sky roiled with dark clouds. The storm would be arriving in about an hour. He would have enough time to complete his mission and if he succeeded, it would be a precious piece of information to feed his father, to give them all hope.

He left his boots in the sand and took his first step into the water. It was like icy little needles stabbing his foot, but he took a breath and continued. His robe billowed up like a dress as he waded forward and made it difficult to walk. The salt seared a burn on his leg, but he steadfastly ignored it, although pain was not something with which he came into daily contact. After all, he was just a mage. A highly Gifted one, perhaps, but still just a mage.

Or so said Tusaine.

Just the thought of them made the muscles in his belly clench in nauseous anger. _Murderers_, he thought viciously, and slapped at the water ineffectually. His palm smarted. _Slaughterers, butchers, invaders._

Lightening zigged on the horizon. The wind picked up a little, sweeping through his red curls. Thom brushed a lock out of his face and did his best to push his brother from his mind. Alan was dead and he could not help him—

("Mother," he said, his voice carefully bland, "did Uncle Thom keep any record of his spells?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Alanna replied, glancing at him. "Why?"

He looked away, and made the mistake at eyeing the picture of Alan hanging in her study. "No reason."

Shockingly, unexpectedly, she had grabbed him by the collar and pulled him roughly down to her. Her violet eyes flashed when she hissed, "Don't you dare. I miss Alan just as much as you do, but don't you even think about messing with the dead. Leave them in peace, Thom, let your brother rest.")

—but maybe he could help those still living. He reached into a fold in his robe and pulled out his mother's scrying mirror, quietly purloined from her chambers. It had taken him a decade to finally figure out the proper spell for this, ten long years of Tusaine's reign and a dead brother. Now, almost twelve years after the siege, he was finally putting it in play.

_Sentiment_, he thought, tracing the roses etched in the back of the mirror, a gift from so long ago that seemed so foolish now. _Power. Necessity. Loyalty. I know what I need now to make this spell work. And I think I have it._

Thom wondered if Numair Salmalin had understood he had used a double-edged sword. The master mage had set an intricate and unbreakable spell on Princess Lianokami before she disappeared, and while it prevented all enemy mages to scry her, it also prevented anyone from scrying her. Essentially, truly, the princess and her keepers had vanished without a trace. It was a spell too powerful for anyone to break, even for Numair himself.

Until now.

He rolled his shoulders, letting the tendons gently pop, and shoved his sleeves up. The water was almost to his chest, the air humming with tension. He was standing in the middle of nature at its finest, its rawest, and he was going to take advantage of it.

Thom whispered a word.

Just like that, the world went still.

Nature was listening to him.

That was the trick, he had learned in an epiphany. While others sought to break the spell, to harness power and crush it and undo its secrets, Thom realized he must _ally with_ the power. It was the key, to coax and cajole until the power, the nature allowed him passage.

"Show me Lianokami."

And suddenly sound came rushing back full force. It was the howling winds and the deafening crack of thunder; lightning struck him, but it wasn't really lightning as much as it was pure light, and his very bones sang with pain. There was fire in his lungs and sand in his eyes and he was dying—

—he was _drowning_, because the water had pulled away from him to form a tower that curled over him, and now it was crashing down on top of him. He lost his footing and was effortlessly swept away in the current. It battered his broken body and pulled his limbs from their sockets and he was tossed every which way like a dolly. Down into the depths he went, clawing upwards the whole time to no avail. An invisible hand was pulling him down, down—it was strange to think he had been able to stand in the water at all when now it seemed as though there was no end to this abyss.

_I can't hold my breath anymore,_ Thom thought desperately, squeezing his eyes shut. _I failed, damn it, the spell failed and I was wrong. Alan, I'm sorry—_

He opened his mouth, and breathed.

And breathed again.

And again.

His eyes popped open, and he screamed. Bubbled streamed out of his mouth. All around him, up and down and on all sides, was empty blackness. He was surrounded in water, he could feel it as he moved his hands, but it did not choke him. This was not what he expected, oh was this ever wrong—the word had been wrong, nature had rejected him.

His fingers touched something solid floating near him. Instinctively, Thom snatched it and pulled it up to his face. His eyes could see nothing in the dark, and so he traced its shape with his fingers. With a jolt, he realized, _The mirror._

And just like that, there was light.

It was the lightning that was not lightning but some kind of pure light, like sunshine. It was radiating from the mirror, and Thom gripped the handle with both hands, afraid it would somehow fly from him. The light was somehow behind the reflective glass, casting a glow all around him, and to his surprise, his reflection appeared in the mirror—wide-eyed, frightened, and clear as day.

Then, it dissolved.

The picture changed.

Thom brought the mirror close to his face. Shapes fused and separated, sharpening and solidifying until he saw the scene before him as though he was there.

_No_, he thought. _It can't be..._

_Lianokami_.

The spell had worked.

He had not seen her since she was a toddling girl, but he would recognize her anywhere. She was hanging precariously out of a broken-shuttered window, her face tilted up to the sunlight and staring straight at him. She would be—he quickly counted—ten now, perhaps, and her heritage was beginning to show. He could see it in her firm mouth and chin, in large eyes and broad brow; that was Roald, true as an arrow. Her coloring belied her Yamani heritage—fair skin, limpid brown eyes and sleek black hair she wore in a braid. She was too thin, and her eyes had seen too much, but she was, like no other he had seen, an unadulterated Conté princess.

A figure joined her at the window, draping arms over the sill and leaning out. It was dark Faleron of King's Reach, looking the worse for wear. He was gaunt and had lost his courtly luster, but he, like Liano, was alive. He looked to be querying her—Thom couldn't hear any sound from them—and he was even smiling a little. Liano glanced up at Faleron, and when she spoke, he could see she used the word _Da_.

"You're alive," Thom breathed, tears stinging his eyes. "_Princess_."

Faleron was already turning to leave, but at his voice, Liano looked up, startled. Her eyes seemed to delve into his like daggers, and Thom held his breath. After a moment, she simply shrugged, and ducked back into the dark room. The window slammed shut.

The light went out. He inhaled water.

"Goddess," he choked as something came up beneath him, hurtling him up and up and up through the water at the speed of light. His ears popped, his heart hammered violently in his chest, and he suddenly doubted that he would make it out alive to tell what he saw.

And then, suddenly, like an answered prayer, his head broke through the surface of the water. Thom gasped for breath, sputtering and coughing, splashing stupidly. The thick salt on his tongue made him gag. Oddly, his feet found sand and he was standing perfectly, the water only to his chest. A light drizzle pattered on his face as he glanced up at the dark clouds, with the wind whistling through his hair. He still held the mirror.

"Goddess," he repeated for no reason, looking around.

There was nothing to suggest anything extraordinary had just occurred. It was stormy, and that was all. Thom glanced down at the mirror in his hand, and did a double-take. For a moment—no, it was impossible. It was a trick of the mind; he was, after all, absolutely exhausted.

It just seemed—he almost thought the face in the reflection had been younger, blonder, firmer...

It had looked like Alan.

But now it only showed his own white face with its dilated eyes and wet hair plastered to his head. It was only Thom, alive and well.

He tucked the mirror back in his robes, and started his slow trudge back to shore. He didn't bother putting his shoes back on. He swept his gaze around one last time, staring out at the horizon, out at this deceptive water. This beach was a sacred place, and all this time he had had no idea.

"Thank you," Thom said quietly, and only hoped whatever it was could hear him.

And as he turned to depart for Pirate's Swoop and its echoing halls, its homelike feel, he heard it: a mere whisper that was barely audible over the roar of the waves, but it was, to him, clear as a bell.

_You're welcome, brother._

_

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**Killing Alan off made my heart hurt a little. ): Please review!**


	5. Vows in Shadow

_**- One man has forsaken his binding vows, the other still clings fiercely to his; the only thing they have in common is the shadow on their hearts.**_

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The dim torches flickered tauntingly in his wake as he passed, his footsteps purposely quiet to avoid detection. Cleon felt like a bandit in the palace—out of place, unwanted, though he had walked this path for over a decade now. Maybe it had something to do with how the native servants stared through him like he did not exist, the way Tusainies greeted him cordially, even familiarly—and worst of all, the way the remaining Tortallan knights regarded him with a loathing, an unadulterated hostility. _It's not my fault_, he wanted to yell at them whenever he met their judging, disgusted eyes. _Kennan was under pressure, they would've killed us if I hadn't pledged my loyalty to them!_

But that was a hollow argument, even if he believed it, or, at least, had convinced himself it was what he believed. After all, most every house had been offered the same terms—

(except Mindelan and King's Reach, and that pain had never really disappeared)

—and it was the majority of them who refused any propositions from the Tusainie invaders. And they paid for it with their lives.

Was the price of bravery really worth it?

"Kennan."

The raspy voice hissed out from a dark alcove to his right. Cleon choked and leapt straight up in the air, slamming his back against the opposite wall. He stared with bulging eyes as a figure emerged from the shadows, and as it stepped into the light with a wheeze and the knock of a cane, he recognized Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie's Peak.

"R-Raoul."

Shame and anger bloomed like an ugly flower in his belly. He stuttered like a frightened child, showed his weakness.

"Scared, boy?" Raoul sneered. "There's a lot to say about a man who jumps at shadows."

"There's a lot to say about a man who hides in them," Cleon retorted. "What do you want?"

Raoul leaned heavily on his cane, and Cleon carefully avoided glancing at the twisted, warped mess that was his right leg. The man stared coldly at him. One would think that the scar that cut through his eyebrow and caused his eye to droop severely would steal some of his intimidation, but he was just as ominous as he was all those years ago.

"I just wanted to see Tusaine's whipping boy up close," he said conversationally. "I heard Einvers wants to give you one of his mistresses. Is one wife not enough for you?"

"Just so you know, I plan on refusing," Cleon said stiffly. "Were you hiding in there just to insult me?"

"For the most part."

"I'm not going to stand here and—"

Pain exploded in his head and for a moment all he saw were stars. His knees buckled beneath him, and he fell to the ground clutching his white-hot head in agony. It took him several groaning moments to realize that Raoul had struck him with his cane.

"I dare say you'll stand there if I tell you to. Or lay there, if that's what you so choose."

Cleon glared resentfully up at him. "I'd watch it if I were you, or—"

"Or what? You'll call your master on me? Crawl back and whine that you were beaten up by a cripple? I'd be careful, because Einvers doesn't want cowardly men."

"He never should've let you live."

"Spoken like a true Tusainie."

Weakly, he struggled to his feet. His stomach roiled, then settled, although spots continued to dance in his periphery.

"I'm not Tusainie," he said in a low voice. "Contrary to popular belief, I am not Tusaine's lapdog. You all act like I supported their takeover, like I supported King Jonathan's death—I didn't! I raged and protested and hated just like you _still_ do! But what was I supposed to do? They were already dead, damn it, and there was no point in fighting them when they had already won!"

"An interesting choice of words," Raoul said softly. "You say 'you all' like we are such a different breed, but in case you've forgotten, Kennan, you _are_ one of us. Once you are a knight of Tortall, you can never be anything else except traitor."

"I'm not a traitor—"

"Then what are you, fool, if not that? You are traitor and coward and weakling, and I curse the day a gentle heart like Kel's ever saw something in yours."

At her name, something in Cleon's chest constricted painfully. His breath caught in his throat, and for a minute he struggled for breath. Her name conjured sunny days and soft lips, dreamy eyes and Yamani princesses and blue-eyed princes and friends who wrestled with him and helped him with his homework. Her name spoke of good days, of dead days, and of memories that threatened to strangle him with their wistful beauty.

"Don't you dare bring her name into this," he said quietly. "Whatever else, you leave her out of this."

Raoul bared white teeth in a grim smile, black eyes snapping. The scar along his face flexed eerily. There was something utterly frightening about him, some kind of bitter sanity that was so close to shattering.

"It must be hard, having courted one of Tusaine's most wanted. It leads me to ask—is that what you're worth to them? Are you their fountain of information? Have you told them everything you know about her, so that they have a better chance of finding her? And you were friends with Faleron, too, if I recall, so I wonder if you've been chatting all about him, too."

It was very quiet for a moment. Cleon was trembling with some emotion, hurt and anger and fear, and waited for something that he didn't understand.

Finally, Raoul said, almost thoughtfully, "Disart rebelled quite violently, and both Sir Balduin and his young wife were brutally slaughtered for it. Lady Jessamine was from Queenscove, you know. Nealan's sister—your friend's sister. But of course that means nothing to you."

"Be quiet."

"My own wife—I think you remember her, Buri—killed over a hundred Tusainie pigs before seven arrows brought her down. She died defending Tortall, and the people, but most of all, she died for Thayet—she was devoted to her K'miri lady to the very end. But perhaps such sentiment does not interest you."

"Shut up."

"Ah, maybe this will strike your fancy. You knew that lad, Owen, didn't you? And you remember how a couple of Tusainie guards hung him from a palace balcony and let him dangle there until the crows devoured him?"

"I mean it."

"I think you do. But there's something they didn't tell you, and that's because they didn't want to upset Cavall—Lord Wyldon was and still is a force to be reckoned with. They didn't want him to know that old Ain had sent soldiers to Jesslaw to take his wife, who was born to Cavall, and tortured her until she screamed for her mother, and would you like to know what they did to their infant son—"

"I don't want to hear it!"

"What gets me, though, is how you were the leader of the cleanup crew sent to burn the dead at Mindelan and King's Reach. How did it feel to have to string up your own former knight-master, and all of Kel's family—"

"_Shut up!_" Cleon roared. "Just shut up! I know what you're doing and it's not going to work! I'm not going to break down and cry and beg for forgiveness! Jonathan's reign is over, the Conté dynasty is through. Tusaine rules Tortall now, and you_ just have to deal with it_, do you understand me?"

"No!"

Again, before he could stop it, the cane hit him again, this time in his tender belly. He doubled over in pain, wheezing.

"No, we do _not_ have to just deal with it, you coward, you bastard! These people and so many more died for this country—that is what makes a knight! They may have sacrificed their lives, but at least they died on their feet. At least they're not living like you, on your knees to a false king. You and Fenrigh and those pathetic others—you're no better than those who have ruined this kingdom."

Raoul grabbed his collar, and pulled him up so that they were nose to nose.

"I hope you savor this feeling, Kennan," he whispered. "I hope you enjoy being a royal pet, because that will end. Not now, not next year, not in five years, but eventually. Our true princess will return, and we will gather at her banner, and I will make sure you are the first to bow to her."

"You're crazy." Cleon pushed him away, straightening his tunic. "You've absolutely lost your mind."

"Tusaine thinks so. It's what's kept me alive."

"Get out of here. Don't ever speak to me again."

The man gave him a long, piercing look that made Cleon shiver, and then slowly limped away. He watched him closely, making sure he didn't suddenly turn back and hit him again; for all that his leg was deformed, he was deceptively quick. But he didn't turn around, and eventually, the heavy tap of his cane fading away.

_He really is crazy_, he thought. _I don't know how you put up with him for four years, dewdrop._

Cleon hesitated a couple seconds longer, and then pivoted and strode down the corridor. King Einvers was expecting him, after all.

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